


I Knew You Were Trouble

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Morse is pretty, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21708052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: As soon as he walks though the door, the world seems to dim. The chatter of the other policemen fades away, the report falls from his grasp to land, unheard on the desk – even the sunshine through the window turns pale and uninteresting.He's beautiful. Just the type to get Peter into trouble.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	I Knew You Were Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> The vibe is all wrong, but part of me loves using a Taylor Swift song as a title for a Jarse fanfic :D 
> 
> Also I promise I will soon write something more substantial than these little ficlets you're getting at the moment (like maybe, at some point, another chapter of my 'Tread Carefully' WIP...).

As soon as he walks though the door, the world seems to dim. The chatter of the other policemen fades away, the report falls from his grasp to land, unheard on the desk – even the sunshine through the window turns pale and uninteresting.

He's beautiful. Just the type to get Peter into trouble, with hair in curls that would hide where he grabbed, a clever mouth, and wide eyes that flit about, taking everything in. Landing on him.

The man's gaze is shrewd. Definite intelligence there, and that's good – Peter likes someone who can keep up with him. A pretty face is a pretty face, but too often there's nothing behind it. And that's fine for a quick shag, or a fumble in a dark alleyway, but to pass the time of day a partner with a brain is pretty much essential, in his book.

The man looks away, and Peter trails his gaze down, past a rumpled shirt at least one size too big, down trousers that haven't seen a press in a while either, to scuffed shoes. It's a poor attempt at office wear, from someone either unused to it or who just doesn’t care. It makes him look young. Student? Except he seems a bit too world weary for that.

Blue, he realises, as the man comes closer and looks back up at Peter. He's always had a thing for blue eyes. And, he thinks, just a hint of freckles below –

“Jakes. Jakes!"

The world streams back in, and he finds Thursday at his shoulder looking at him strangely.

“DC Morse,” he introduces. “He'll be our new constable, he was invaluable on the Tremlett case, when you were away.”

DC. Another copper then, not a witness as he'd hoped. That's unfortunate. Complicated. Morse rings a bell, too, some things the other men said when he got back from his week off, about the way some upstart from County came in and unearthed strings in poetry books and crosswords, pulled on them until the whole thing unravelled. One of their team now, it seems, as Thursday's taken him under his wing. They'll be working so closely they'll knock elbows and share car rides and pub lunches.

“Morse, this is DS Jakes.”

The man – Morse – holds out a hand, and Peter looks at it. The fingers are long and slender, and he reaches gingerly, before grasping and shaking properly. It's as he feared; warm but not sweaty. The kind of hand he'd be happy to hold as long as he was allowed. He drops it, mentally slashing through pictures the touch generated, of late nights and early mornings and what Morse might look like then. The general dishevelment, and the thought of how he might get there, what it might take to straighten him out and then the fun of messing him up again.

No, he tells himself sharply. That can't happen.

“What, don't you own an iron?” he asks, pasting on a sneer, with a nod at Morse's shirt.

Morse's face darkens. Part of him hungers for the new expression, the way anger sharpens his features, the way he presses his lips together like there's a storm brewing behind them, one he's not stupid enough to release on first meeting with a superior. He wants to know what he'd say, if he is as clever as he looks, as clever as everyone said.

Another part of him hollows out at putting that look there. At the distance he's created between them.

It's for the best, he argues silently, as Morse stalks away to his desk without a backwards glance and Thursday heads into his office. Morse can never know the way Peter's heart beat a little faster when he walked in, the way his eyes linger even now over the line of his shoulders. It could go so wrong – he could find himself arrested, worst case scenario, but even discounting that there are too many variables. Morse could hold it over him, either explicitly or accidentally, and a Sergeant bending to the whim of a green as grass constable would raise eyebrows and suspicions.

No.

Best he tamp down on it, and keep Morse at arm's length – even if that means Peter has to treat him like crap. He can sneer at his clothes, and his voice – too careful, too educated – and the way he's swanned in here as Thursday's right hand man. Too big for his boots, he can say. Peter's not generally vindictive, but that'll be enough for the other coppers. They'll believe him.

And – if he must – he can indulge in the odd look. He can see sunshine in that hair even if he'll never know how it feels against his fingertips. He can pick at the rips in his coat and scoff at the state of his shirts, instead of peeling them off him. He can watch him eat in the canteen or the pub, and wonder about cooking him a meal at home, about sitting next to him on the sofa, about listening to the radio and then leaning over, capturing those lips with his own and tasting it off his tongue.

Occasionally. If he must.

Blue eyes look up, and catch him staring. He narrows his eyes, before wrenching his gaze away and looking down at his report. Yes, getting too friendly with Morse... too close... that would be dangerous.


End file.
